


He's With You When You're Sleeping, He Knows When You're Awake

by gala_apples



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Sleepy Sex, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby goes home with John because he wants to enjoy another family's traditions. Being fucked to sleep is a new tradition for John, but he's willing to integrate it into his future holidays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's With You When You're Sleeping, He Knows When You're Awake

John's been called manipulative. He prefers to think of it as understanding systems. The education system, parental systems, peer systems; he knows how to work them all to his favour. The world is built on people with skills flourishing, the ones without failing. It's why he hates not being able to create flame, it puts a dent in one of his stronger skills. Why shouldn't he use his skill of working systems? Besides, it’s impossible to not notice the only people that get mad at him for 'manipulation' are those that don't have the ability themselves. IE: they're jealous.

Maybe it's manipulative to use his peers and their stupidity, the school and its secrets to protect himself. In fact, it's likely that it is manipulation. But John doesn't care. When one lives in the world he does, the best thing to do is to not leak any information. It's his main strategy for surviving a boarding school; accept any rumors created about him, don't deny or confirm anything. If there's one thing John knows, it's that rumors thrive in a place built on secrecy.

It's December nineteenth, and John's in his room packing. He knows he's one of the few that has a family to go back to. The overwhelming sadness that knowledge causes -which will later be converted to the more useful feeling of rage- is only eclipsed by his relief. John's learned a lot here, but he's missed a lot too.

Bobby, who has no sense of privacy whatsoever, opens John’s door without knocking then leans against the doorframe. He eyes the suitcase and the pile of crumpled clothes and asks in confusion “what are you doing?”

“Packing. It's Christmas.”

"That must be nice." 

John's heart dips at the tone. He sounds so wistful. It’s pointless to ask, but he does so anyway. "You're not going home?"

"I don't have enough control to manage Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, never mind the two weeks."

"Oh. You're not out?"

Bobby looks at him strangely. "You mean you are?"

"Yeah. Everyone at home knows." John picks up a t-shirt, examines the design on the front, and tosses it into his suitcase.

"Then why are you here?" Bobby blurts out. A second later he covers his mouth like a five year old that believes that might hide the words that came out of their mouth.

"I have a temper. When I started floating sparks over to the jocks that pissed me off, the school asked me to leave. They gave us a good reference to a doctor that dealt with mutants, and from there it was a friend of a friend of a friend until I ended up here. I might even graduate at a normal high school, if I can learn to control my anger."

"Huh."

John continues packing, but Bobby's still leaning on the wood. He's obviously not finished his interrogation, but John's not going to prompt him. Bobby will continue in his own time.

"You never talk about your family."

"Yeah. My family and my powers are separate things."

"We just kind of assumed-"

"They were rapists, or I killed them with the first manifestation of my powers. Yeah, I know. I heard the rumors too."

Bobby looks awkward, scratches the nape of his neck. "I... Sorry."

" 'Sall right. Could have denied it."

"Right. Well, have a good Christmas." Bobby nods once, then closes the door behind him. John continues packing, trying to figure out the options to work the parent system. He's grown enough in the last eight months that the clothes he has at home won't fit. He's got new clothes from the donations to the school, and whomever they are they must be rich because they're nice clothes. Still, John would like his own, chosen by his own hand. If he doesn't pack much, he might guilt his parents into buying him more. On the other hand, they might see through it and not buy anything, and then he's only got four shirts for fifteen days.

As he's contemplating, the door opens with enough force for it to slam against the wall. It's Bobby again, but he's wild-eyed. "Can I come with you?"

John has no idea how to respond to that. He could ask why Bobby would want to follow an acquaintance to meet some strangers, but he isn't sure he wants the answer. He could tell him to fuck off, but that seems too cruel. He could invite him openhandedly, but how would Bobby actually get there? Finally he chooses logic. "Uh. No? I don't live near here, I'm flying. It's expensive."

"Lets say money's no object."

"But it is." There's no point in setting Bobby's hope up for failure.

"John, to give an excuse for not coming home for Christmas, I said I was going abroad. A huge field trip to France with other classmates. My parents sent me a five thousand dollar check. I have nothing else to spend it on. Can I come?"

"Why? I don't get why."

"It's Christmas, John. Everyone wants a good Christmas, something with family. Summers and Jean are putting up a Christmas tree next week, but it's not the same. I just want to settle into a set of traditions, not something makeshift and depressing."

If Bobby came home with him, all his secrecy would be for nothing. Bobby would leak all his information to the more capable gossips in minutes. But he can understand wanting to be at home, any home, for Christmas. If Bobby can afford coming to John's home, there's no reason to stop him. "If you want."

He fishes his flight information out of the front pocket and hands it to Bobby. There's so much bald-faced relief on his face that John has to look away.

***

Their plane lands at just after eleven. They stand at the baggage claim waiting for their suitcases for a ridiculous amount of time before the bags start circulating. John heaves his up and wheels it towards the parking lot. Bobby follows behind John, for once being quiet and meek. 

"Look for the lime green van."

"What?"

"Custom paint job. My brother scratched the car, then did this. Smartass." John explains. He waits for Bobby to respond but after silence finally looks behind him. "What?"

"You never said you had a brother."

"I never said I had anything." 

He spots the van in the distance. It’s beautiful, for all that it’s an awful colour. Like a big beautiful woman that wears too much gaudy jewellry to draw an eye away from her shape. John starts trudging towards it. The tiny wheels of the suitcase don't fair well in the snow, and after a few feet John just lifts it an inch off the ground and carries in the rest of the way. Once he’s at the van he drops the case at his feet and does a drumroll on the side of the window to get his info-glutton parents attentions. His mom is driving, Dad in the passenger seat. He can tell because Mom reads the Post, and his dad the Times. The rapid beat startles them, the papers jerk when they jump before being folded down quickly.

The front doors are opening as the large side door gets pulled to the side. He's got family on three sides, and he can tell that Bobby is watching, but he doesn't care that they're making a scene because he feels loved. It was a mutual decision that he go away, but it's nice that they've missed him as much as he's missed them.

Finally they pull away. His brother raises a single eyebrow at Bobby- a feat which John's always been jealous of- but lifts both their suitcases into the car. His mom looks at Bobby too, but it's his dad who speaks up. "And who's this? A boyfriend?" He chuckles, and Bobby nervously laughs. Bobby knows full well John didn't call for permission before bringing him along.

"This is Bobby. He's one of us. Obviously. He's not out-"

His mom interrupts, surging forward and sweeping a blushing Bobby into her arms. "Oh, you poor thing! How could-"

Over his mom's crooning, John continues "so he can't go home, but he wants a real Christmas, so I said he could come do ours."

"Lillian, let go. Bobby, it's nice to meet you. I'm sorry to hear about your shame." John winces at his dad's choice of words. Before Bobby has a chance to react, his parents have gotten into the van, and John is pushing Bobby into the back.

They only live a few minutes from the airport, in a fairly working class area. He's sure it's not what Bobby's used to as far as houses go, Bobby seems like an Ivy League kind of person, but he doesn't give a rat's ass about Bobby's opinion. This is his house. Paul opens the door, and only a step inside John stops. It still smells like orange Glade. It's strange how much you can miss a smell. He feels stupid, but a smile is rising on his face, and he has to strongly resist the urge to hug everyone again. Instead he fishes into his pocket and flicks at his lighter. The tiny flickering flame helps him centre himself.

"I'll take you to the guest room, Bobby. I'll even wash the sheets first, considering it's been about a hundred years since someone's slept in there." Still quiet, Bobby slips off his boots and follows Paul, leaving John alone with Mom and Dad.

"Now John, tell us the truth."

"Like I'd do anything else." Okay, that's not always true, but it is when they're both staring at him with that look. Regret, and love, and something else John can't place.

"Did we do the right thing? Are you calmer now? Can you control it?" His mom's questions are rapidfire, but nowhere nearly as hard to answer as the single question his father asks.

"Can you come back home?" 

John shrugs, but knows that won’t be nearly enough to satisfy them. "I think we did. It's different, being in a place where everyone's like you. I understand Harvey Milk school now, understand segregated gender classes. It's reassuring, but in a hard to explain way. And I can control it now." 

He concentrates, breathes in his nose and out his mouth slowly. He flicks the end of his Bic, safety pried out, and grows the flame as it comes out. He makes it square, separates the flame in certain corners. He finishes and looks at it with pride. For a flickering, moving, alive mass, it looks remarkably like their house. Something so detailed takes a lot more concentration than a car sized fireball. He won't be able to hold it much longer. He moves his gaze to his parents. He wants to see their reaction to his art.

Mom looks suitably impressed, but his dad still has the regretful drawn on his face. John closes his fist and the fire contracts, first into a small ball, then nothing. He knows what his dad wants to hear, but he's not ready to say it. For whatever reason, he can't. 

"I don't know, Dad. Can we talk about it later? I'm going to go put my stuff in my room."

***

Bobby pulls him to the side later in the evening. It's family video game night, something they've done since John was a child with hands too small to hold a controller. Because Bobby's there they're rotating the four controllers, Bobby occasionally taking someone's when they tag out. But this mini-game is only for two players, so John follows Bobby at his tug.

In the hallway he hisses "did you know your brother is a mutant?"

John stares at him. For this he’s missing Mom curse like a sailor? "Yeah. Of course. It's passed by the father, it only stands to reason he'd have it."

"He can turn things colour. My suitcase, his skin, he even showed me how he can colour the air silver and make it glint in the sunlight!"

"I _know_. I told you he was the reason we have a green car. He did it, he didn't buy the paint. He could change it back, but my parents wanted to keep the first proof of his power. They also kept a jar of my first ashes, if you'd noticed in the kitchen."

"Why wasn't he at the school?" Bobby seems almost outraged by the idea.

"Not everyone needs it. My brother didn't have problems with control, didn't ever do anything in public. Well, not accidentally. All three of them are in the Mutant-Human Alliance, so he'll show off in demonstrations. I on the other hand... well, I told you about the jocks."

Bobby just blinks at him.

John rolls his eyes. "You can't possibly think this is a problem. You're a mutant who lives with mutants at a school taught by mutants. You can't possibly care that my brother is a mutant."

"I don't care like _that_. I just think it's a bit weird. I’ve never met a mutant that didn’t go to the school. It’s kinda surprising, so forgive me for being a bit ‘what the fuck’. But I don’t actually care that you have a capable older brother. Have seven, be a Weasley if you want.”

John doesn’t point out that there are only six Weasley brothers because that’s not the point of this conversation. “Get over it. You're here ten days, you can survive weirdness."

***

Paul bursts into his room about seven AM. As far as wakeup calls go, any other day and John would be singeing nostril hairs. But not today. He’s spent sixteen Christmas Eves awake when it’s still dark out, and that’s not something he wants to change now. Still, when Paul gets closer and shakes his foot it’s all John can do to not kick him in the face. Manly because he knows what he’s going to see when he climbs down the ladder; bright green flesh. Emerald green. _Christmas_ green.

John dresses so he doesn’t clash, black shirt, black jeans, novelty socks with snowmen on them, and heads for the living room where doughnuts and coffee are waiting. Mom’s her customary cardinal red while Paul rocks a crimson and Dad is the same emerald he is. It instantly becomes clear that Bobby’s been touched too, willingly or not, when he walks in a few minutes later and is a lighter grass green.

“So, Bobby,” Mom starts, “on Christmas Eve we decorate the house. The boys use their hands _and_ their skills. If you can think of anything you could do with your ice, feel free.”

“You know?”

“You don’t think John never emailed us?”

Judging by his expression, he had no idea John was talking to his family. He recovers well though. After a moment of thought Bobby volunteers “uh. I could make a table sculpture when you guys have Christmas dinner? If you have Christmas dinner?”

“We do. That would be lovely.”

After that they disperse to start sprucing up the different rooms. Everyone’s in charge of dragging out their own packing boxes from under the stairs. The one John claims is an entire box full of various shades, heights and weights of candles. Bobby mostly watches him cluster them in different rooms, occasionally commenting that a display needs more white, or that tall one is too tall. Eventually they make their way back to the living room where Mom’s already set up the tree and is now curling ribbons and garlands around it for Paul to tint later.

“You have a plastic tree?”

“What? An artificial? Yeah. They’re way easier to decorate. Besides, the pinefresh smell makes Dad nauseous.”

“The white theme’s nice. I like it better than my parents anyway. Last year the designer they hired recommended yellow and peach. It just didn’t seem Christmasy. At least white is snow.”

John snorts. “It’s not gonna stay white. Paul makes them look different every year. Christmas isn’t about matching.”

“Huh.” And before John can ask him what exactly huh means, Bobby is rushing forward and putting a teardrop shaped ornament on the tree and John doesn’t have the heart to interrupt him finally enjoying himself.

***

“You know how sometimes we, you know, do stuff?”

John is too spent for this kind of conversation. He grunts a yes, the puff of warm air rebounding against the duvet onto his face.

“Do you think we could do something now?”

“Go ahead.” John rolls over and spreads his legs. It’s not the most sexy display, his ass is still covered in flannel with ducks printed on it, and he’s still got a blanket covering him from hair to toenails like he’s a sprawled corpse. But it is the absolute best Bobby’s going to get. John has no interest in trying harder to intrigue his barely-friend with benefits. It’s a benefit of friends with benefits, sex without attempting seduction.

Bobby sneaks under the blankets. In a deft maneuvering that John might applaud if he could bring himself to care Bobby manages to straddle him and get his pyjama pants stripped off, all without letting in a draft. “Clench your thighs together?”

John does, for about thirty seconds. It’s just another muscle that got a workout this morning that he doesn’t feel like straining.

“Okay, that’s not gonna work. Wasn’t even long enough to get my dick out. Roll onto your side.”

John does. Not because he has any will to get off, but because the alternative is Bobby leaving him high and dry some night when he wants something. It works much better on his side. His legs want to stay closed in this position.

His lube is hidden under his pillow. Thankfully Bobby guesses so he doesn’t have to move his arm. John hears the bottle click open, and the slip of Bobby preparing himself. It’s not a lot of prep, where a lot means any at all, but it’s gotta be better than the one time they tried fucking dry. That was uncomfortable, to say the least. Except Bobby doesn’t try to fuck him. Instead he nestles close behind John and sticks his cock between his thighs. The insistance of a tight press makes more sense. Not that he regrets staying lax, and letting gravity do the work for him.

“If I,” he yawns then starts over. “If I fall asleep you don’t have to stop.”

“Dude, you’re _that_ tired? I can go away, we can stop now.”

“No. Seriously. Don’t care. Come on me. In me. Whatever. It’s hot.” Or it would be, if John wasn’t about to pass out. Right now he couldn't get hard for a fire eater dressed only in sequins. If he wakes up after a good ten hours with Bobby’s come inside him he’ll find it hot then.

“Oh my god, dude.” Judging by Bobby’s quickened pace he finds it hot now.

John yawns and adjusts his head on the pillow. It’s getting pretty hot under the blankets. Not a kind of heat he can use, just warm skin and sweat. It’s like falling asleep with a hot water bottle, if a hot water bottle was as ecstatic about its duty as HitchHiker’s Guide doors are. He lets the warmth and the smooth rhythm of Bobby behind him lull him to sleep.


End file.
